


For Science

by Castiron



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: sherlockbbc_fic, Crack Pairing, M/M, Open Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-14
Updated: 2011-10-14
Packaged: 2017-10-24 15:11:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castiron/pseuds/Castiron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>John shook his head, then suddenly smirked.  "You know what your real problem with Anderson is?  It's the unresolved sexual tension."</i>  Sherlock performs an experiment to prove John wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Science

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this prompt on sherlockbbc_fic:
> 
>  _In a random bout of superior intelligence, John tells Sherlock that really, the only reason he's so hostile with Anderson is because of all the sexual tension. John proposes that Sherlock fuck the living shit out of Anderson to prove his theory. (In the name of science, Sherlock. It's of national importance. You must.)_
> 
>  _Sherlock does, if only to prove that John is an idiot.  
>  It's the best sex he's ever had. (And we're just going to assume he's had a lot.)_
> 
> Thanks to tweedisgood for Brit-picking. And thanks to the anonymous prompter for feeding the Muse.

John glanced back at the flat door as Anderson slammed it. "Your winning personality strikes again. Happy now?"

Sherlock didn't let John distract him from the floor around the corpse. "Yes. My neurochemicals are already operating more efficiently." _Two people walked through here, one the dead woman. And the book there, and the bin liner there...oh, this is trivial; I should have told Lestrade to sod off and let Anderson bungle through._

John shook his head, then suddenly smirked. "You know what your real problem with Anderson is? It's the unresolved sexual tension."

He did not drop his magnifier, but it was a near thing. "The what?"

"That's why he distracts you so much. He sends all your blood away from the summit and down into base camp."

John was clearly too inspired by the mountain-climbing gear the dead woman had kept in the spare bedroom. "Has Anderson's idiocy finally infected you too?" Sherlock made himself focus on the tufts of fibre on the floor. Yes, those must have been in the bin, and the killer emptied it out and....

"So there's only one thing for it. You're going to have to shag him."

"John. If you are not going to be useful, then go and stand outside with Anderson."

John grinned. "You think I'm wrong? Prove it. Get a leg over for science."

"Out!"

"For science, Sherlock." John was still grinning as he opened the door. "It's got to be a more interesting experiment than drowning slugs in the milk."

 _Oh. John used the wrong milk container. After I wrote an "A" for "avoid" on the package and everything. Idiocy really is contagious. Which is why I would never...._

He started when Lestrade opened the door. "Well, Sherlock?"

"Boyfriend suffocated her with the bin liner. Works at the bookshop in Church Street; you'll find him there if you go now. Find me something worthy of my expertise next time, would you?" Sherlock stood. "Come on, John!"

He met Anderson's glare — unresolved sexual tension? Ludicrous! — and turned away, striding down the hall. John was still chuckling. "For science," he whispered. "You _must_. The nation eagerly awaits your results."

"I would sooner brush my teeth with a paste of _Campylobacter jejuni_ and arsenic." _Though would arsenic affect the bacteria? Must experiment, but make sure labels are idiot-proof._

* * *

So why, Sherlock wondered as he lay on the couch that evening, did that idea refuse to be deleted?

He was no stranger to sexual desire, to bodies and release, but he had set that aside years ago, even before he had set aside cocaine. Still, he remembered what had appealed to him physically, and Anderson fit none of those categories. As for mental charms — it was laughable.

On the other hand, Anderson had, somehow, appealed to Donovan, who for all her tedious traits was not a complete fool. Evidence of hidden depths, or merely of Donovan's desperation?

 _Does John see something that I don't?_

Impossible. John was merely experiencing a lapse in his ordinarily tolerable mental functions.

 _Prove it._

* * *

It was trivial to set up the experiment. When they went to the Yard a few days later to wrap up some paperwork, Sherlock lifted Anderson's wallet, replacing it with a note and, after a moment's thought, Anderson's Oyster card.

After he and John returned to 221B, he said, "I need you out of the flat for the rest of the night. I'm running an experiment."

John's eyebrows rose. "Rest of the night as in don't come back until the pub closes, or as in stay away until you call to tell me that the hazardous waste crew has finished?"

Sherlock didn't look at John, focusing on the computer screen and the three whinging emails that he would answer quickly and killfile. "I already warned Sarah that you might need her lilo."

"Oh. Do I want to know...."

"Biological and messy." He sighed at John's expression. "Yes, John, the food zone will be kept clear."

He'd calculated that he had at least until nine to finish arrangements after John left, but it was only 8:47 when the knock on the front door came. Sherlock listened as Mrs. Hudson opened the door and said something inaudible, heard Anderson's annoyed response, and counted the seventeen creaks of the steps. _Now._

Anderson opened the flat door. "Sherlock, what the hell are you...."

Sherlock leaned back against the sofa arm, letting his legs spread further and noting where Anderson's gaze fell. _Bisexual. I thought so._ "I'm conducting an experiment."

"Yeah, John's told us about your experiments." Anderson grimaced. "Just give me my wallet, damn it, so I can go home."

Eye contact, Sherlock remembered, was very important to get the message across. "You want your wallet? Very well."

He rose, twisting just enough that the dressing gown swirled. Anderson still glared, until Sherlock reached around him and slid the wallet into his back pocket, letting his arm brush along Anderson's ribs. Then Anderson only blinked. _Idiot. Why am I not surprised?_

Anderson's voice when he spoke, though, was strangely even. "An experiment."

"Congratulations. Your short-term memory is still partially functional."

"Am I in the experimental group or the control group?"

It was Sherlock's turn to blink. Well, yes, Anderson must have had a basic science education at some point. "Please. If I told you, it would void the experiment." Time to shut him up before Sherlock's own brain shriveled from the forces of stupidity. He raised his hands to Anderson's face and kissed him.

* * *

Sherlock was prepared for a shocked reaction, even a punch or shove. He had not expected — _welcome_. Not the soft movements of Anderson's own lips, not Anderson's hands abruptly pressing against his cervical curve and left scapula, not the infinitely gentle suction and the flavour and...

Anderson pulled away. "All right, where's the camera?"

Sherlock sighed, ignoring his elevated heart rate. "Try to at least exhibit the cognitive abilities of a rotifer. A photograph or video could as easily be used to blackmail me as you. You needn't worry that I'm about to send candid images to your wife."

"Least of my worries." Anderson's hands fell away ( _air, suddenly cold_ ) as he stepped back. "What's really going on here? Remember, I'm an imbecile, so you'll have to use small words."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and considered telling him the truth — _John thinks I want sex with you, and I'm going to prove that I don't by having sex with you_ — but decided against it. "Hypothesis." He ignored Anderson's snort. "I'm better in bed than Donovan. Experiment: obvious. Or do I have to explain that in small words too?"

"Oh, let me guess. Some subset of 'kiss, pet, grope, frot, fuck'?"

"Precisely. I'll even expand your Latin and demonstrate fellatio."

That elicited a sharp inhalation, but Anderson's expression retained its usual skepticism. "That's all, then? Just sex? No convoluted plan to kill and dismember me and scatter my corpse about London? No scheduled interruption from Lestrade so you can put him off his feed for the foreseeable? No Watson hiding under the table to live-blog whatever happens?"

The order of those scenarios would have been interesting if Sherlock hadn't long since deduced Anderson's greatest fears. "Just sex. No scheduled interruptions. No murder, no corpses. Unless they're unscheduled interruptions, but that's more interesting than sex anyway."

"If they're more interesting, your hypothesis is bollocks."

"With so little brain, how _do_ you breathe? John is out for the evening. Have you any further objections?"

Anderson tilted his head. "I'm sure I'll think of something." And then his mouth was on Sherlock's again, hands on Sherlock's upper arms, steering him back towards Sherlock's bedroom.

* * *

How, Sherlock wondered, had he failed to deduce that Anderson would actually kiss well? Surely there must be ( _oh_ ) some evidence that one could gather outside of performing the act itself. The way a person sipped from a bottle, perhaps? ( _but that would say nothing about the constant shifts in tempo and pressure, the swift darts of tongue_ ) And Anderson's fingertips, tracing over his back, his arms and shoulders, his scalp and face ( _the bed was superfluous; here leaning against the wall by the door was perfect_ ) — had there been the slightest clue of how pleasant that could be?

He pulled his mind back into gear. Too early to be so distracted, especially when Anderson still seemed able to concentrate. Sherlock turned his attention to Anderson's neck ( _ticklish rather than erogenous, apparently_ ) and chest ( _ah, much more effective_ )

When he dropped to his knees and unzipped Anderson's trousers, though, Anderson stopped him. "Condoms. Got any?"

"Yes. We don't need them yet."

"Like hell we don't."

What was it about sex that turned people's brains into tapioca? Sherlock jumped up and found the medical reports where he had left them — last August's in the dictionary marking the page with the table of alphabets, February's in the anatomy text, March's under the five broken MP3 players, April's in the drawer with the pens and the calipers.

He brandished them under Anderson's nose. "Clean. Clean. Clean. Still clean. You aren't going to catch anything from me, and I despise the flavour of latex. And I've seen your tests in your file." And Donovan's, he managed not to add. "For oral sex, I find the risk low enough to be acceptable."

Anderson leaned against the wall, arms folded, unflustered by his open fly and erection. "You saw my tests from five months ago. I've had six new partners since then."

 _Six??_ "Is your wife even stupider than you are? How has she not noticed?"

"You call yourself a consulting detective; I'm surprised you haven't figured that out."

"Please. The amount of time you occupy my mind outside of a crime scene...." Circumstantial evidence was currently damning. Change tactics. "You aren't actually _worried_ about your wife finding out about your adulteries. That means.... she already knows, and presumably consents. Open marriage? Or...." A vague recollection from a half-deleted years-old memory surfaced, those two months when Anderson had been away on leave and Sherlock had nearly come to blows with his substitute. "Fluoxetine or citalopram?"

That murmur was almost certainly _freak_ , but Sherlock ignored it. Anderson shook his head and said, "Sertraline."

"Of course; another SSRI. Clearly it benefits her enough to live with the side effects, including loss of libido."

"Yes. It does. Well deduced." Anderson's voice was tight, but not quite to leave-my-crime-scene levels.

"And presumably you both find your marriage sufficiently beneficial to remain in it, so you have permission for liasons to relieve your sexual urges. But _six_? You do realize it would be much safer and more efficient to find one regular partner?"

"Yeah, and that's who Sally was until you outed us at work. And judging by performance so far, she's a lot better than you are."

"Oh, honestly, you don't have nearly enough data." Sherlock looked at him, feeling suddenly off-balance. "Do you actually _care_ about my health?"

"No. I care about it not being my fault when you catch something." Anderson shrugged. "I've had more recent tests; they just aren't in my work files. Negative for everything so far. If you want to take the risk that I'm patient zero for the sexually transmitted stupidity virus, go right ahead."

"An unlikely etiology." Sherlock knelt again. "And my resistance to such an implausible disease would be high." _Length: average; diameter: average; flavour: excellent._

* * *

It had been years since Sherlock had last performed fellatio, but clearly his skills had not suffered for the neglect. And Anderson was far more tolerable when murmuring and exhaling his pleasure than when speaking. Sherlock wondered whether it was remotely feasible to do this at a crime scene, then firmly ruled out the idea; besides the awkwardness of explaining to Lestrade, he would be too distracted from the work.

Especially if Anderson always gave scalp massages while receiving oral sex. Careful, firm strokes, painstaking as a paleoentologist chipping rock away from a fossil, briefly interrupted by a stutter of fingers when Sherlock switched from the smooth licks of Mendelssohn's "Consolation" to the polyrhythmic flicks of _Le Sacre du Printemps_.

It was almost disappointing when Anderson pushed lightly at Sherlock's forehead and said, "Better stop. Don't want to endanger the experiment."

"Certainly not." Sherlock sat back on his heels. "Have I adequately refreshed your Latin?"

"I'm recalling a bit more of it. _Cevebisne_?"

It took Sherlock a moment to break that down — Latin, while useful enough to keep on the hard drive, was not a language he frequently accessed. _Oh._ What a subtle way to ask to top; he would have expected Anderson to be more blunt. " _Cevebo_. You do actually know Latin."

Anderson grinned. "Only the medical terms and the obscenities." He took a deep breath. "And all I can remember now is the latter. You're a lot better at that than I'd have thought."

"Better than Donovan?"

A snort. "Not quite. But she and I'd had plenty of time to figure each other out."

Oh, no, had he missed data _again_? "How long were you two involved?"

"Close to a year."

The shock pushed Sherlock to his feet. "A _year_? How did I _miss_ that?"

"Because we were careful? And that was the first time we were interrupted by work?"

"Ridiculous." Sherlock started pacing, trying to find the hints in the largely deleted memories. "You must have shown some signs; there's always signs. Change in personal space alloted, eye contact...."

"Not this again. Do you _ever_ stop?"

"...frequency of casual touch, respiration when in proximity, facial expression when you converse — what did I _miss_?"

"Oh, for God's sake." Anderson took three steps and pushed Sherlock down onto the bed.

* * *

Sherlock lost the thread of his deductions to more kissing, interrupted only as they removed the remainder of their clothing ( _far less clumsy than expected_ ).

Those earlier tracings of fingertips — that had been _data gathering_. It could be the only explanation for how Anderson was unerringly stroking exactly where Sherlock's skin was most sensitive, the pressure perfect. Those brushes over his forearms, barely touching; those firm caresses down his sides and thighs, the light licks to his earlobes and the bites to his trapezius and the hard suction over his jugular.... He _wanted_ , for the first time in years.

He mastered himself enough to slide over the half-meter to the bedside table and get out the lubricant and condoms he'd bought yesterday — Christ, what was Anderson doing to his _foot_ and why did it feel so _spectacular_? "Here," Sherlock said, sitting up and shoving the boxes into Anderson's hand. "This should be obvious enough for even you to deduce."

"You want to demonstrate hardcore giant balloon twisting." Anderson opened the condom box. "Only the masters can do it with slippery hands."

"Are you an idiot naturally, or have you purposely destroyed your neurons?"

"Oh, that didn't sound any madder than the things you spout at crime scenes."

"My statements are based on data and logic." Sherlock lay down on his stomach.

"Just wait. One of these days we'll have a murder involving enormous balloon giraffes. And you'll look at them and declare that the murderer was not only an expert balloon twister but also a left-handed smoker who takes adventure holidays in Kenya and plays the clarinet. The worst of it is, you'll be right. Hold on a minute."

Well, of _course_ one could figure that out from a balloon by examining the knots and.... Sherlock looked up at the sound of a drawer opening. "Get out of...." He stopped when Anderson pulled a latex glove from the package in the middle right desk drawer. "How did you know those were in there?"

"Found them during a drugs bust." Anderson put on the glove and applied lube to his fingers.

Sherlock laid his head back down. "For someone who routinely works with corpses, you are strangely squeamish."

"In case you hadn't noticed, I wear gloves for that too."

The cool touch distracted Sherlock from formulating a response.

* * *

So odd, this combination of desire and relaxation, one heightened by the gentle probing of Anderson's gloved finger, the other by slow firm strokes from Sherlock's sacrum across and down his buttocks and thighs. Anderson asked, "Have you done this before?"

"Of course. Hundreds of times." He belatedly realized why Anderson was asking — clearly the combination of arousal and Anderson was suppressing his intellect more than usual. "It's been years, though."

"Right, then." Slowly increasing pressure, hand sliding across his back, _oh so good_. "So you're not shagging your flatmate. We all wondered."

The idea made Sherlock feel vaguely sick. "John is far too important to waste on sex."

Anderson snorted. "What is it like, living in a brain designed by Salvador Dali?"

"It's perfectly logical. I'm married to my work; I don't have _time_ for the boring routine of intimate relationships. John is my friend. " He had not meant to say that; Anderson's fingers were proving an effective interrogation technique. "He's an excellent assistant and the only flatmate I've ever had that lasted more than a month. Sex would only spoil that."

"You're quite the romantic, aren't you?"

How was one supposed to _think_ like this? "You surely don't think that sex and emotional attachment must invariably go together. At least I certainly hope you don't."

"God forbid." Anderson's free hand was now massaging out from the lumbar vertabrae. "I only want that combination from one person, and you are most definitely not her."

"Just so that's clear." Anderson was tracing the nerves, Sherlock suddenly realized. Tracing the path each nerve bundle took from his spine out across his body. The knowledge arced across his skin in delight, out of his lungs in a moan. _So. Amazingly. Good._ "If you paid this much attention at crime scenes, you might actually become competent."

"That sounded frighteningly close to a compliment. You must be ready." His fingers suddenly changed angle _oh perfect more_.

"A logical inference," Sherlock said, once he'd relocated his voice. "Keep that up — oh! — and you might one day be able to deduce the obvious."

He shivered as Anderson's hands left him, listened to the snap of the glove being removed, the rip of the condom packet — proof, if he hadn't had overwhelming evidence, that Anderson was very experienced; no one could open those quickly without a great deal of practice — the click of the cap on the lubricant.

 _Soon. Soon. Now now now. Oh. Oh. At last._

* * *

When had he last felt this good? Certainly not since his final hit of cocaine. Anderson's thumbs continued their tracing of his spinal nerves; Anderson's thrusts sent currents through his body. Pleasure built like puzzle pieces, like facts pointing towards a much desired conclusion.

So infinitely long a time, so soon, need closed in on pleasure, kept pace with it. More. He needed more. "Please. Please. Touch me, please."

"You'll have to be more specific." Anderson gasped, then continued, "Remember, I'm, what was it? So ignorant of anatomy that I couldn't find my face with a textbook and a mirror." The next thrusts showed that he knew anatomy very well indeed.

"Must you — please! — be delib- oh oh — deliberately obtuse please I need please _oh come on_!" He finally reached back, almost losing his balance. Hand. There. Much better.

"Ah. The word you're looking for is 'penis'. Or 'cock'. Or 'prick.'"

"Hush. Please."

"Polite request? I am astounded." Anderson began to stroke him.

Sherlock whimpered. Wonderful and not nearly enough. Firm quick strokes, but so _long_ between each, time for three heartbeats if his pulse were not racing. "Please. I can't — I can't —"

Anderson's other hand squeezed his shoulder. "You will. Wait. You will."

He gave up and let the need flow, the desire, the utterly perfect agony driving him back against Anderson, eliciting low moans in return. _More. More. Oh more oh. Want. Want. Need. Please._

Anderson was murmuring again. "Oxaloacetate. Citrate. Aconitate. Isocitrate. Oxalo...oxalo..."

Oh _God_ , he was reciting the citric acid cycle; the words flowed straight into the building ecstasy. Sherlock shuddered and gasped out, "Oxalosuccinate _please_."

"Don't tell me I've found _another_ partner who's turned on by biochemistry." Anderson laughed breathlessly. "That's supposed to slow me down, not speed you up. Alpha-ketoglutarate."

"Succinyl co-oh-oh-" Orgasm hovered like the solution of a case, just out of reach, _please_ , just one more piece of evidence needed....

"Succinyl-coenzyme A. Oh, bloody _hell_."

And finally Anderson's hand was speeding up, Anderson's other hand pressing a crumpled paper tissue against his glans, the last clue, the solution was in sight, _please please everything falling together everything falling apart yes fire lightning adenosine triphosphate OH!_

He gasped as the ecstasy finally faded, aftershocks skittering up his spine as Anderson hissed "yes!" and finished. Sherlock's arms abruptly buckled, and Anderson's — dear God, _Anderson's_ — hands grasped his shoulder, guiding him down to lie on his side.

There was not nearly enough air. Christ, what had he _done_?

After a minute, Anderson rolled away; Sherlock heard him slide out the bin under the bedside table. Then Anderson's hand was on his back. No other contact; just one hand, between his shoulderblades, unshaken by Sherlock's heavy breathing.

He could not stop gasping. Gasping, not sobbing. Even if his tear ducts were unusually active. Sobbing did not fit with lassitude, with sudden echoes of bliss, with the horrifying knowledge that _I have just had the best sex of my life and it was with _Anderson__.

"I know what this was really about." Anderson sounded subdued. "The doors at that flat the other day were thin. I heard what Watson said to you."

Sherlock could not even feel shock. His lungs shrieked at the inadequacy of oxygen.

"Unresolved sexual tension. I thought it was bollocks. Then when you came on to me, I figured, fine, it'll be complete crap, but what the hell." Anderson exhaled. "I had no idea it was going to be so bloody good."

There must be something he was supposed to say. It must be possible to take a slow breath, to stop these percussive inhalations.

"You probably want me out of here now, don't you?" Anderson waited; when Sherlock didn't respond, he said, "Right," and sat up.

The sounds of clothing being donned, of buttons and zipper and belt.

The rustle of soft fabric.

And then the fabric's touch, as Anderson tucked the dressing gown over Sherlock. "Till the next murder, then."

The bedroom door closed. The flat door. The street door.

Sherlock pulled the dressing gown tighter over himself and waited for the gasping to ease.

The text alert on Sherlock's phone finally forced him to sit up.

 _Do I need to have a word with him? —MH_

Oh no. No no no no.

 _Sod off. —SH_

 _And NO. Leave him alone. Word not necessary. —SH_

He dressed again, went to the kitchen to look at his experiments.

No. No experiments. Not right now.

* * *

Sherlock eventually dozed off on the couch, not waking until the footsteps on the stairs the next morning. _John. Happy. Did not sleep on the lilo this time. We both...._

The door opened. "You won't believe who Mrs. Hudson thinks was here last night...Sherlock, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," he lied. _My world as I know it is upended._

"You look terrible. You aren't getting sick, are you?"

"Of course not. Do try to observe the obvious."

He regretted that statement almost immediately, as John turned and stopped, staring at Sherlock's still-open bedroom door. "My God, what did you do to your room? I can actually see your bed. You didn't put those books and boxes in my room, did you?" When Sherlock didn't answer — where else could they have gone? there wasn't _that_ much space in the flat — John walked over to Sherlock's door, saying, "Please at least tell me that you didn't put the dessicated newts up there....fucking bloody _hell_."

The condom box. He hadn't put that away. And John had just seen it.

"Your experiment last night. Anderson."

Sherlock stared at the windows.

"Sherlock. I was taking the piss. I didn't seriously mean that you should...that you should try to get Anderson to...." John rubbed his face. "Christ, I'm so sorry. How offended was he? Look, I'll tell him it was my fault, that I put you up to it...."

"Your hypothesis was verified."

"...that it was a dare and I didn't think you'd go through with....what?"

"I said, your hypothesis was verified. Unresolved sexual tension existed."

"You didn't...okay, I'm going to sit down." Which he did, on the floor by Sherlock's door. "How exactly do you do that trick of deleting memories?"

"You couldn't possibly learn."

"I'll make a damn good effort." John sighed. "So. That bad, was it?"

"Quite the contrary. My evening's exercise was at least as pleasant as yours."

John shook his head. "Absolutely do not want to know how you deduced that. But if it was, that would have to be pretty spectacular."

"It was."

"Then why are you moping...never mind, forget I said anything. Tea?"

* * *

Sherlock stayed on the couch the rest of the day, ignoring John's obvious efforts to give him space. And thinking. If one could dignify this blur of disorganized brain activity with the term. _Sex. Anderson. Good._ Three words that should not go together, and yet had.

An experiment. Just an experiment. There was no reason to be taken aback by surprising results; that was what experiments were for, because sometimes reality was stranger than one thought.

 _Sex. Amazing. Fantastic. Anderson._

 _What have I done?_

 _What do I do now?_

Lestrade's phone call that evening could not have been more welcome. "We've got another one for you. Body found in a car park. Surrounded by a circle of flowers; tree branch sticking out of a stab wound in his chest."

Work. At last. His focus was already returning. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

* * *

It was easier than Sherlock had expected. Anderson was there, of course, but he only gave Sherlock the usual snarl and then ignored him. Perhaps that was why Sherlock hadn't realized about him and Donovan earlier; Anderson really _was_ a decent actor when he made the effort. Pity he couldn't play a competent forensics technician.

And the scene was _fascinating_. He began to believe that he would get through this without incident, until Donovan spoke. "What happened to your _neck_?"

Oh, hell. No mistaking those for anything else. He glared at her. "What does it look like?"

Like restaurant patrons hearing a shattering plate, everyone turned towards John, who raised his hands. "Wrong suspect; I wasn't anywhere near the scene of the crime." Which would have been a perfect response if John hadn't glanced at Anderson and grimaced.

The Yarders, much as Sherlock hated to admit it, were not wholly incompetent at observation. And their expressions as they realized.... In any other circumstance it would have been gratifying.

Anderson folded his arms, ignoring the stares. "So tell us why this bloke is in the middle of a flowerbed with a pine branch between his ribs."

Sherlock retreated behind the reliable shield of insult. "That is not a pine; that is a spruce. Any idiot can tell the difference. Well, obviously not just _any_ idiot, since you clearly—" He made eye contact with Anderson.

Mistake.

Facial vasodialation — he would _not_ call it blushing. The car park was overheated, never mind the cold draft. And he was not hearing Lestrade's whisper of "I don't bloody believe this."

Anderson cleared his throat. "Fine. I'll cancel my application to the Met's special botany command." He glanced at the others and lifted his chin. "Let me guess what you're about to say: the vacuum in my skull rivals that between the stars, leave before it sucks up your intellect."

The word choice brought back the feel of a hand rubbing his scalp, the creation of the bruise on his own neck, _stop it! This is interfering with the work!_ "Exactly," he managed to say. "Go outside and see if you can find a road; it's a wide piece of tarmac that cars drive on. You're supposed to stand halfway between the parallel lines."

"Right, I know when I'm not wanted."

 _You have no idea._ Sherlock bit his tongue to keep that from escaping, then snarled at the others, "And you lot aren't helping. Lestrade, I suppose you have to stay. The rest of you, out."

"All right," Lestrade said, "you heard him. Go and check the stairwells and lifts for needles and loose petals."

Donovan paused by Sherlock, staring at him; unaccountably, she grinned. "Well. You lucky bastard."

"I said, out!"

Finally rid of the onlookers except for John and Lestrade, Sherlock put on his gloves ( _see, I wear them for corpses too_ ) and crouched to examine the body. Spruce branch between fourth and fifth rib, obviously not the murder weapon, which was a wide blade, almost certainly penetrating the heart. Possibly luck, but more likely anatomical knowledge, _hands tracing the pathways of his nerves, warm mouth, no. Stop._

This was _intolerable_.

He rose and stripped off the gloves. "Turn around, both of you. I need five minutes."

"Like hell I'm letting you out of my sight," Lestrade said. "I remember the last four times you stole evidence from the crime scene."

"Those were all justifiable....fine. You two stand here and look at the pretty flowers and try not to think too loudly. I'll be right behind you."

He turned his back to them and forced himself to focus.

The beauty and the power of science: the experiment revealed the truth, and it didn't matter whether you liked the answer or not.

Sherlock took a deep breath and faced the truth: _I did like it._

And then the other truth, the truth that he had been avoiding all day: _I want to do it again. And again. And yet again._

From there, it was simple.

He took out his phone and texted.

 _An experiment's results are confirmed by repetition. —SH_

 _I do not indulge while on a case. —SH_

 _I will have solved this case by next Wednesday. —SH_

 _Are you free then? —SH_

He waited, bending to study the ring of flowers, ignoring John and Lestrade's silent conversation. _Marigolds, chrysanthemums, roses, tulips. Flower heads only, no stems. Florist or horticulturist? Spruce suggests horticulturist. Anderson, look at your phone. Circle, very even, probably made with string to mark radius. Spruce branch at centre? Yes. Look at your phone, _please_._

His phone chirped at last.

 _Who am I to interfere with science? Fridays always out; any other day negotiable. Your turn to demonstrate superior anatomical knowledge._

Sherlock found himself smiling. _Now_ he would be able to work. He looked up at John, who shook his head and said, "For science, right?"

"Of course," Sherlock replied. "For science."


End file.
